A Temporary Wedding
by misty malone
Summary: Post Reichenbach. In order to dismantle Moriarty's web and keep up his fake identity, Sherlock happens to need to be married, and Molly Hooper happens to be the only woman that knows he's still alive.
1. Chapter 1

_Hiya everyone!_

_This is my second Sherlolly fic, I hope you like it. _

_This chapter's kinda short, I promise the others will be longer :)_

_I don't own Sherlock or any of these characters, though I'd like to one day..._

_Love Misty x_

* * *

Chapter One

"Ah, brother dear. So nice to see you again."

Sherlock glared at his older brother and started drumming his fingers on the mahogany wood of the table. He was even more irritated at Mycroft than usual; he had been carrying out an extremely important experiment at St Bartholomew's when that Anthea lady had burst in, demanded that he 'come with me right away, Mr Holmes' and then brought in an entire troupe of security guards at Sherlock's refusal.

"I can get rid of Moran on my own. I don't need anyone's help, especially not yours."

"Yes, but you do need a fake name and passport. I thought you'd be grateful to me for sorting all that out for you." Sherlock sighed, reluctantly admitting to himself that Mycroft was right. "I could have done that on my own," he snarled, annoyed at being beaten. It was somewhat useful of his brother to have done all this - he'd have had to do it himself otherwise, which would prove very difficult seeing as to everyone except Mycroft, Sherlock Holmes was technically dead.

"Here's the envelope with your passport, European Health Insurance Card, driving license, birth certificate and credit card." Mycroft stiffened as Sherlock opened it. "Benedict Cumberbatch," he said indignantly. "What kind of a fake name is Benedict Cumberbatch? It'll just make me stand out."

"Sorry about that. There's another slight problem with the identity, but there's a way of sorting that out."

Alongside the birth certificate was a marriage certificate. To someone named Louise Brealey. "Mycroft," Sherlock pronounced angrily. "This Benedict Cumberbatch person is married."

"Ah. Yes, there was a slight error and you got mixed up with another client. Somehow they got it wrong and.. well, your fake identity is married."

"Well, you're going to have to ask them to do another fake identity."

Mycroft straightened up and adjusted his tie. "They can't do one in time for the date you have planned. You could cancel, but -"

"No, I can't cancel because Moran is off to Bolivia the day after the event. It's the last chance we have," Sherlock growled.

Mycroft sat down. "But you forget," he said, quietly smug, "there is one solution."

"You can't possibly suggest that I get married! That's preposterous, you know there's no one I could marry and can't you just ask them to hurry up and to prioritise making my second fake identity above their other clients'?"

"Sherlock, you are forgetting someone."

He paused. "Molly. Molly knows I'm alive and we could divorce afterwards .. Thank you, Mycroft. I don't know if she'll agree to it but it's the only thing we can do." He rose to his feet and put his coat on, then hailed a taxi back to the hospital, and it wasn't just because he had an experiment to finish.

Molly was hurrying down the St Bart's corridor. She wasn't in a rush, just angry. She had been convinced that the date had gone well last night, and he was handsome enough - short brown hair, tanned, grey eyes, tall and well built - and then he'd broken it off by text, saying that he was getting back with an old acquaintance from university and was sorry but didn't want to be with her any more and that they probably shouldn't keep in touch because his new girlfriend might be mad at him for it. Why, why, why did she never meet someone who actually wanted to be with her? There'd been several men that hadn't gone further than the first date, probably because of her small bust and lips and general mousiness, and then there was Jim. Jim, who was sweet and made her coffee but turned out to be possibly gay, blew up a poor old lady, was arrested for stealing the crown jewels, and then shot himself. Molly wondered what going on a date with Sherlock would be like. They'd go somewhere special, not just to the cinema or to a restaurant or something, and then she'd admit that she had liked him for ages and -

"Oh, I'm so sorry, I didn't see where I was going!" Molly squeaked to the man she'd just bumped into, and then blushed crimson when she realised that it was him, the very man she'd just been daydreaming about. Sherlock Holmes. Great. She'd just walked straight into him like a bumbling idiot.

"No, it's fine," he said, then gave her a quick smile. "Look, Molly, I kind of need to ask you a favour."

"OK," she nodded. It was probably just something like another body he needed to experiment on.

"Molly, I have to track down Moran - Moriarty's sniper - and my brother's given me a fake identity. A fake identity who so happens to be married, so I need someone to pretend to be my wife, and you're the only woman who knows I'm alive." Molly couldn't believe it. Yes, it wasn't exactly for the reasons she'd imagined, but Sherlock Holmes was asking her to marry him.

He continued. "We could fake divorce afterwards, we wouldn't have to '_do_ anything.'" (To be honest to herself, Molly would quite like to '_do_ things' with Sherlock, but she was never going to tell him that.) "Yes," she said. "Yes, I'll do it."

"Thank you, Molly. Can I see you in the lab tomorrow to talk more about it?"

"OK, see you there," Molly said, smiling nervously. Sherlock left and she felt like she was going to jump for joy. She'd be married to Sherlock Holmes! Sort of!

She was almost glad the man from the night before had dumped her.


	2. Chapter 2

_Hiya! Here's Chapter 2 xx_

_Hope you like it, reviews make me happy and when I'm happy I update faster..._

_As before, I don't own Sherlock. Sad face._

_Love Misty xx_

* * *

Chapter Two

Molly curled up on the sofa with her favourite movie, blankets, a cup of cocoa and Toby, who promptly yelped and leapt out of her arms the moment she picked him up. "Charmed," she muttered.

Not even a rejection from her cat could dampen her spirits. Her and Sherlock Holmes. Married. (Fake married, but at that moment she really didn't care.) Except she'd now learnt that he was not a Sherlock, he was a Benedict (maybe she'd call him Ben) and she was a Louise (maybe he'd call her Loo) - or at least they were on the night of the Ball they were attending, which Sebastian Moran was to be present at. According to Sherlock, this Moran person was trying to kill a very important political person who she'd forgotten the name of, and Sherlock's job was to capture or possibly kill Moran before he killed the very important political person. It was all very complicated. But a ball! Oh, thought Molly, how amazing would a ball be. And it wasn't just any ball, it was a fairy tale themed ball, which Sherlock seemed repulsed of by the very notion. Would she have a dress, she wondered, and would that be fairy tale themed too? She'd never really owned anything of as much value as a fancy ball dress, but she could scrape together her savings. It would be worth it. Maybe after he'd got rid of Moran they'd be time for a dance and Sherlock would -

The phone rang and Molly hastened to pick it up. "Hello?"

"Molly."

"Oh, Sherlock! What a... surprise." She mentally cursed herself. Now not only did she sound like an idiot, but like she'd forgotten about the whole thing.

"Molly, my brother has messed things up again. On purpose this time."

"What is it?" She was slightly nervous that he was going to call their arrangement off.

"He's organised us an actual wedding. Apparently, they might need absolute proof of our wedding, and he says the only way to get the documents we need is to _actually get married._"

A wedding! "But - what -" she attempted.

"We can't get out of it. If you don't want to anymore then you can pull out, I don't mind." Molly sensed that he did mind, but didn't want to show it.. What did that mean? Grr, Molly, she thought, stop playing psychologist. Especially when the person in question is Sherlock Holmes.

"No! No, it's absolutely fine!" More than fine. It was perfect.

"The wedding's only in a week. You're going to need a dress. Mycroft's personal assistant will meet you outside your flat at 2pm tomorrow for the fitting."

"And.. where is it?" Another dress. Molly was a bit worried about how excited she was becoming about dresses. Two of them.

"Nowhere of great importance. My brother's booked it at Kew Gardens."

"Thanks, Sherlock. Um, see you?"

"Thank you, Molly. Goodbye." He hung up and Molly metaphorically exploded all over the carpet. A wedding! She thought for a moment and came to the conclusion that Mycroft was not organising their wedding because of the documents. If he'd managed to get fake passports, birth certificates and credit cards, the necessary marriage papers wouldn't be too hard to find either. She suspected he might be matchmaking, but then what did she know about Mycroft Holmes except for that Sherlock hated him?

Something also told her that Sherlock had figured this out already himself. To say that he was cleverer than her would be the understatement of the year. But as yet, he hadn't refused to fake-marry her.

Hmm, Molly thought, this should be interesting. What would happen next?

* * *

Sherlock waited impatiently for Molly to arrive.

Why did the bride always take so long in walking down the aisle in weddings? It was stupid, wasted time and the worst bit was the guests are supposed to look amazed and stunned by the bride's beauty and her dress and all that consumerist rubbish. A bride is just a woman with makeup on in a fancy white dress, he thought, and yet everyone else was supposed to ooh and aah at her like she was something of actual interest.

Still, that was in traditional weddings, and this was not a traditional wedding. When Molly finally arrived, she was in a simple but tasteful dress with minimal makeup on and held a bunch of lilies. Apart from the fact that in the marquee there was too much white (it got on his nerves), this wasn't as bad as he was expecting the situation to be. He flashed a quick smile at her and she returned it.

The vows were boring. Sherlock wasn't actually listening to them, but tried to act as if he was - the guests believed that the marriage was real, so he'd been firmly told by his brother to pretend this was the best day of his life, because apparently that was what ordinary people thought about weddings. He knew he must have looked somewhat uncomfortable, but Molly was doing it perfectly. She even looked like she meant it when she said 'I do.' How on earth did people do that, pretend that something that was really just faked was real, and more than real, but a huge landmark in their lives?

And then came the words they had both forgotten about.

"You may kiss the bride."

* * *

Molly knew they had to kiss. It was a wedding, for god's sake, and all the people watching were hanging upon their every move. Sherlock let out a breath, and then whispered "Sorry about this" so quietly it was nearly inaudible, and pressed his lips lightly to hers.

She felt her breath hitch in her throat. Kissing Sherlock Holmes was just like she'd imagined it - his lips were soft, warm and somehow, despite never showing an interest in love or any form of romantic relationship, he was a very good kisser. They pulled away after a few seconds. She was sure she must be blushing red, but the crowd didn't seem to have noticed at all. They clapped, enchanted by the beautiful false love they'd just witnessed. People are so simple minded, thought Molly, and then nearly smirked because she realised she was beginning to think like Sherlock.

* * *

Sherlock hadn't found the kiss so bad. If he had to kiss a woman or have some terrible consequence bestowed upon him, Molly Hooper would probably be top of the list, but wasn't something he would do normally. Although small, her lips were soft and tasted of her lipstick. He smiled, remembering all those days in the lab where he'd comment on how she changed it so often.

Yes, he concluded, he didn't mind too much about this marriage at all.


	3. Chapter 3

_Thank you so much to all who reviewed! I love all of you so much :) I was going to PM everyone who reviewed to say thanks, but there's quite a few people who have reviewed, so I'm just going to say thank you here if I haven't messaged you already :)_

_Hope you like this chapter, I apologise in advance for Sherlock's frustrating behaviour :) as always, reviews and stuff are appreciated._

_Love Misty x_

* * *

Chapter Three

There was no honeymoon.

Sherlock had decided to stop the ostentatious celebrations there; they had a very important task to finish, and any sort of deviation from it could threaten its completion. He had to focus. Molly Hooper was merely part of the plan, and when they'd managed to complete it then they'd divorce and go back to normal. Simple as that.

But he couldn't help but feel a little pang of the feeling he loathed most.

Sentiment.

Bloody sentiment, so complicated but so _common _among the ordinary. The ordinary... was Sherlock Holmes himself developing an ordinary side? He couldn't bear the thought. That was it: he had to distance himself from Molly. Any further contact would distract him from his work, and that could be disastrous considering the current situation.

Despite the lack of honeymoon, Mycroft had insisted on a night in an expensive hotel up in London, and having paid for this before even asking Sherlock and Molly, there was no way to refuse. Sherlock was sat in one of the velvet armchairs in their suite when Molly came in. "Sherlock!" she said, smiling. It was remarkable how her whole face had lit up upon seeing him. Maybe she too had acquired unsuitable affections. "Molly," he said, in a tone quite opposite to hers.

She smiled again, but it didn't reach her eyes. Then she frowned. "What is it? Is there - is there something wrong?"

"No, no, Molly, I'm fine," he said, rather too quickly, waving her away. "Thinking."

"Hmm." She stopped like she didn't know what to say. "What about?"

"Molly, I'm _thinking_," he repeated firmly. That had been a little too harsh. He internally cursed himself. She knew he didn't like to be disturbed, but he shouldn't have reacted that way.

"Oh," she said, stifled, and then went to hang her coat up, the light gone from every inch of her face.

Now look what you've done, Sherlock thought to himself. Yes, you don't want to become attached to Molly, but that did not mean brushing her off entirely. She could still abandon him and then the plan would fail. She came back into the room and he attempted to smile at her but was met with a scowl. He'd never encountered an _angry_ Molly before. He didn't know that an angry Molly existed. And he really didn't know how to deal with one.

"Molly-"

She sighed and ignored him.

"Molly, I-"

"Stop trying to act like you're sorry!" She turned to him, her expression angry and sad at the same time.

"But I am sorry," he said plainly.

"No, you're not! I don't understand, Sherlock. Over the past few weeks you've actually regarded me as a person and not just a _thing_ who helps you with your _stupid _experiments," she cried. "But now you're being horrible and acting like nothing ever happened!"

Sherlock looked down at his hands. Part of him wanted to say sorry (and mean it). Part of him wanted to carry on as he was, without emotion or feeling, with just his work. Which possibly was enough. And part of him wanted to just hug her, which he felt somewhat ashamed of.

He settled for the first option, but just as he was about to say sorry, Molly stormed out, leaving him dazed.

Sometimes Sherlock wished he had feelings, feelings like ordinary people; he hated to admit it, even to himself, but sometimes being ordinary was an advantage.

* * *

Molly didn't know where to go.

She felt slightly silly, having just stormed out of a room with nowhere to storm _to. _She just supposed she'd come back in to the hotel room, say sorry for shouting at him, melt into a big puddle of tears on the floor...

But for some reason she didn't feel like she could face Sherlock after the previous exchange. It was almost like one of her tragic love stories she liked to cuddle up in bed and read: the woman devoted, willing to do anything for a man who didn't even acknowledge her existence. Except in reality, Sherlock would never like her back, and Molly would keep on watching him from afar like a lovestruck hawk. She didn't blame him either. What man in their right mind would see her as anything beautiful or sexy or romantic? No, she'd stay this way her whole life. Sad. Unwanted. Like a sparrow amongst swans.

She found herself walking out of the hotel, her eyes red but not crying, and heading for St. James' Park. Yes, Molly would go to the park and sit for a while, maybe buy a book and read it on a bench and watch the world go by. Then she'd come back relaxed and confident, and she would not apologise. She had no need to. What had she done? (All right, she had shouted at him, but not for anything he didn't deserve.)

That was when she saw him. Sitting on the bench she had been about to take.

He looked so different. He was in a navy blue suit_, _his dark brown hair neat, stubble on his chin and upper lip. And then there were his eyes. They held an intensity they never had held before.

But most importantly, Jim Moriarty was _alive_.

It began to occur to her that she should go somewhere he wouldn't be able to see her. For god's sake, this man had people killed. He tried to kill Sherlock, he tried to kill John and Mrs Hudson and Lestrade. She started walking away from him, slowly, as if any small movement could alert him to her presence.

Jim's eyes locked with Molly's. He seemed to recognise her.

He smiled slowly. Why hadn't he spoken to her? Was he toying with her? Molly wondered. Even so, she was glad to walk straight out of St. James' Park and abandon her plans.

* * *

Molly found a coffee shop, ordered a hot chocolate, then sunk down into one of the leather chairs. Her phone buzzed in her pocket.

_Hello, love. -JM_

Her blood ran cold. Now Jim was texting her. He was an evil, psychopathic criminal, yet he bothered to text her. He must want something from me, thought Molly. She didn't know what to reply - the smallest thing could offend him - yet she was sure she was safe here, it was a public place and Jim didn't know where she was... hopefully.

_I'll phone Lestrade. -Molly _she typed, her fingers shaking. The reply came almost immediately.

_Nice try. No, you won't. I would recommend a biscuit with your hot chocolate. You look starving. -JM_

So he did know where she was! The situation was getting worse and worse.

_How do you know where I am? -Molly_

He ignored her. _I would also recommend you do not tell Sherlock that I'm alive. I'd hate to have to hurt you. -JM_

And now he was threatening her. _You found out that he survived? -Molly_

_Oh, Molly. I knew that he'd survive before he even jumped. -JM_

Another text. _Sherlock is about to come and say sorry to you. Stop texting or he'll suspect something. -JM_

She obediently put her phone back into her handbag and stirred her hot chocolate idly. It was scary; in two weeks, Molly would be helping Sherlock kill Sebastian Moran. And as if that wasn't enough, she had the most dangerous man in the world watching her every move.

She was in far too deep and there was no going back now.


	4. Chapter 4

_Hi everyone! Here's Chapter Four of A Temporary Wedding._

_I am really, really sorry but I won't be able to update as fast as I have before because next week I have six exams in five days (scared!) and so I'll sadly be spending most of my spare time revising, but I promise that I'll try my best to write new chapters whenever I can._

_Again, thanks so much for reading and reviewing this, you all make me so happy. _

_As always, I do not own Sherlock or any other characters._

_Love Misty x_

* * *

Chapter Four

Sherlock Holmes didn't like the feeling of guilt.

It wasn't one he was used to, actually - he'd never really considered what other people thought of him, how people were hurt by his deductions of them that he'd bluntly point out. It was only after his suicide that he learnt that sometimes, no matter how scandalous the person in question's past was or how many pounds they'd put on that week, it was better just to keep these things to himself. He didn't feel too guilty about the times when he found himself accidentally offending somebody. But Molly.. what on earth had he been thinking?

No, Sherlock knew exactly what he had been thinking. That Molly was merely a distraction. A thing. A spanner in the works that would prevent him from succeeding in bringing down Moriarty's web. But as he had found out, she was a person, and he hated most people - but Molly was not most people, she was Molly. And that was why he was actually bothered to find her and apologise. He thought of the first time he had said sorry to her; the first time he had said sorry to anybody and really meant it.

After an hour of searching, he found her exact location. A Starbucks, approximately 1.23km away from St. James' park, where he presumed Molly had visited in order to soothe herself, but perhaps found herself crying and was too embarassed to be crying in public, and so left. Or maybe she didn't like the temperature. It was early December, after all. She was sitting by the window looking moderately distraught and sipping at a hot chocolate. She'd also extravagantly ordered whipped cream, even though he was positively sure she was trying to lose weight. The cream was for comfort, then, which meant she still felt bad. Now for god's sake don't mention any of that, Sherlock firmly instructed himself. Apologise, speak gently, offer to do something to make it up to her.

Sherlock stepped inside and the warmth surged through him. He walked over to Molly and sat down on the leather sofa opposite her. Suddenly his mind went blank. He wasn't used to that either. There was so much information in his mind about the temperature inside the cafe and outside, and her body's possible reactions to the change from cold to warm - tingling, blood rushing to her hands, light-headedness - but absolutely nothing on a tactful thing to say to a friend (was she a friend, or a love interest?) whom he'd just severely offended. She cooly regarded Sherlock, waiting for him to say something, unaware of his fear of getting it wrong once again.

"Sherlock?" She sounded impatient. He felt a kind of panic.

Sometimes being honest is the right thing to do, a voice in his head told him.

"I'm sorry, Louise," he said quietly. "I'm just worried I'll say the wrong thing."

* * *

All of Molly's affections for Sherlock immediately resurfaced. Of course he had been scared of his own tactlessness. This was not a man who was used to social occasions; this was Sherlock Holmes, and Molly realised he wouldn't be _Sherlock_ if he wasn't selfish and arrogant sometimes. He cared for her underneath, and wasn't that what mattered?

She took the hint with the names as well. How idiotic could she get? Every person in the room knew who Sherlock Holmes was, and every person in the room knew he was 'dead.' "It's OK, Ben," she said, smiling. She leaned forward so he could hear her. "Won't they recognise you, out in public like this?" she whispered, concerned. He hadn't changed his hair and was wearing the tight purple shirt that she loved. He hadn't been wearing it before in the hotel room.. had he worn it here on purpose?

"Of course not," he whispered back. "I'm not wearing the hat."

She laughed out loud and moved to sit on the sofa beside him. "Really, though," he continued, "I am sorry. I shouldn't have spoken to you like that. It was stupid of me."

"You are many things, but stupid is definitely not one of them." Molly was surprised. A few months before, Sherlock would never have called himself or any of his actions stupid. He had changed.

"I was stupid _then,_" he smirked, "but not now." He paused, and then seemed to remember something. He pulled a photo out of his bag. Molly gasped. "I forgot to show you. This is Sebastian Moran. I wanted to - what is it?"

"I... dated him." It was the man she'd last gone on a date with, the tanned one with the brown hair and grey eyes, the one who'd dumped her the next day. She remembered him well, and he'd been so sweet to her.. but he was Moriarty's sniper. He'd probably killed more people than all the serial killers in England had collectively.

"What?! When?" Sherlock's eyebrows furrowed.

"It was a few weeks ago.. I didn't know who he was.. he said his name was Mark," she stuttered. "He broke it off, said that he was meeting up with someone he'd met at university."

Sherlock nodded. "In that case," he said, "we have an advantage. You can get close to him at the ball without him suspecting you." Molly remembered that she was being watched. Since Moriarty was listening to their conversation, this plan was sure to fail. She glanced up at the security camera she'd spotted in the corner of the room.

"Are you OK?" Sherlock asked. Damn it. She must have looked anxious about something.

"Yes, I'm fine," she said, and smiled.

"Anyway, I have a surprise for you."

"Really?"

"Yes. I seem to remember Mycroft organising some sort of dinner at an expensive restaurant, and I was wondering if you'd care to join me?"

"That would be very nice," Molly said. "Should we go back and change into something a little more formal?" Wait. Mycroft was organising it? Wasn't Mycroft trying to force them together?

"I think so, yes." They left the cafe and hailed a cab back to their hotel. For Molly, this would be perfect, if only she could forget Moriarty...


	5. Chapter 5

_Don't worry, I am still alive..._

_I am really really sorry for keeping you waiting this long! I waited until my exams were over to write this so I could revise more (not that it helped... I probably still did badly lol)._

_So anyway, here's Chapter Five. I love you all so much and I love people who review just slightly slightly more than the rest of you (favouritism, I know) so if you can, I'd really appreciate it!_

_And no, I do not own Sherlock or Molly or anybody else._

_Love Misty x_

* * *

Chapter Five

Molly stared at herself in the mirror and for once did not know what to think.

The person staring back was not her. She was pretty; her lip gloss and mascara were barely noticeable but somehow still managed to make her look completely different. The dress clung tightly to her like a limpet before she'd begun dissection. It displayed every curve on her body - to Molly's embarrassment, even the ones in the wrong places - and showed her off as if she was a mannequin, something to be admired, placed in a window and forgotten about. Her hair was simply pulled back in a high ponytail. She looked weird. She looked alien. But most of all, she did not look like Molly.

Never mind her appearance, why on earth all this fuss over _her? _This was not a date, this was... well, she couldn't really put one now neatly manicured finger on it, but it was not a date, and Sherlock saw her as nothing but a friend, never mind what she saw him as. Mycroft's PA had organised it. Mycroft's PA. There was no reason for Mycroft to force them into some sort of romantic dinner. Except for the reason she had dismissed multiple times and tried increasingly hard not to think about, which made absolutely no sense anyway.

Molly was not going to complain. Yes, this would probably be incredibly awkward, but Sherlock did not seem to see a problem with it. And who knew, maybe he did have a heart underneath that tightly buttoned purple shirt.

* * *

Sherlock stood in the doorway of their suite.

The woman in front of the mirror was not Molly. Well, literally speaking, she was Molly, but she looked nothing like her. It was as if she had been airbrushed. There were no blemishes or visible flaws, and whoever had done her makeup - she hadn't done her own, it was much too well applied for Molly's limited skills - had almost hidden its very presence, yet enhanced her facial features somehow. Molly looked different, but she was not improved. She was not any more beautiful than she'd always been, when -

Snap out of it, he told himself fiercely. He'd just spent more than ten seconds thinking about _makeup_, of all things. Why did Molly have even the slightest effect on him? She had nothing that made her stand out, she was not a genius like him, she had no criminal record. But then again, why did he find a friend in John? John was ordinary as well. It was irrational and nonsensical, and Sherlock did not like it one bit.

Though he did like Molly. He liked Molly a lot. He loved Molly? It was hard to work out whether they were romantic or just friendly, but he had definitely grown affections for her. Why, though, had Mycroft gone to all this effort? It wasn't as if this was a real date, but here Molly was in a dress that costed somewhere between £800 and £1000, with her makeup done professionally and new real diamond earrings. Anthea - Mycroft's PA - had brought in a Westwood suit for him to wear, but he'd bluntly refused. His ordinary jacket and shirt were perfectly all right and Westwood made him think of Moriarty.

"Molly," Sherlock said at last. "Are you ready to leave?"

She jumped and made a sort of squeak that he found quite endearing. "Oh, Sherlock, I didn't see you there," she said, half-giggling. "Yes, I'm ready.. Um, how are we getting there?"

"Taxi. Mycroft's got one already waiting outside." Molly reached for her coat. He smiled. Whatever this dinner was supposed to be, he would try to enjoy it.

* * *

Well, thought Molly, I rather expected something like this. Mycroft was indeed trying to set them up on some sort of date, and if Sherlock hadn't known before, it had been made obvious. There was a candle on the table for two and the restaurant was dimly lit. A wine bottle sat next to an elaborately arranged bunch of flowers in the centre of the table. Sherlock was frowning. This was not boding well for either of them.

"I am so sorry about this, Molly. It must be my brother's idea of a joke." Sherlock sighed and sat down, taking off his coat and hanging it on the back of his chair.

"No! No, it's fine, it's just..." She tailed off, unsure of what to say.

"I'll ring Mycroft and get him to explain." Molly was on the verge of protesting, and opened her mouth to speak but no sound came out. This was fine. She'd always wanted to go on a date with Sherlock Holmes, and now she'd got a chance and it felt all wrong.

"Mycroft, what is this?" She heard his brother replying.

"No. This is just.." He paused. "No, Mycroft, you can't just expect me to." Sherlock was getting strange glances from the formally dressed old ladies at the table next to them. "I'll go outside," he said to her. "You wait here, I'll be back in a second."

As soon as Sherlock left, her phone buzzed inside her pocket. Multiple times.

_Molly, my love, you look ravishing. -JM_

_Come on. Text me back. There's no need to be scared of me. I'm just Jim. We went out, remember? -JM_

_Or are you too busy swooning over your dear Sherlock to remember me? -JM_

She plucked up the courage to reply.

_You aren't Jim, you're Moriarty. Stop contacting me. I could report you to the police. -Molly_

_Ooh, is little Molly telling me what to do? -JM_

_Stop this. Stop texting me. I've got nothing to do with you anymore. -Molly_

_Ah, but that's where you're WRONG! -JM_

_Have fun with your Sherlock while you can, love. See you soon. -JM xxx_

Molly put her phone back in her pocket, feeling almost physically sick.

* * *

"Mycroft, what is this?" Sherlock said indignantly.

"It's me, trying to _help you_," he replied slowly. "Sherlock, you look lonely. Maybe you like her more than you realise."

"No. This is just.." He had been about to say either stupid, pointless or idiotic when his brother interrupted.

"This is just a date. If it doesn't work you can call it off. Try to get to know her a little better."

He raised his voice a little. "No, Mycroft, you can't just expect me to." The old ladies - all widows, maybe this was some kind of counselling group? - were looking at him. Too much. He was in danger of being recognised.

"I'll go outside," Sherlock said to Molly. "You wait here, I'll be back in a second."

It was raining and he'd left his coat inside. "Mycroft. Stop worrying. I'm absolutely fine by myself."

"You care for Molly, don't you?"

Sherlock exhaled. "No. I don't. Molly's nothing. She's only my colleague, an acquaintance. I don't care about her at all." Lying, he discovered, felt bad, especially when it was about someone he lov- liked.

"Really?"

"She's my pathologist who is currently helping me take down Moran. After that, our relationship will revert back to how it was before, strictly professional."

"All right. Goodbye, little brother." Mycroft abruptly hung up. Now all Sherlock had to do was hope and pray that Molly hadn't heard any of that at all.


	6. Chapter 6

_Hi everyone, and here's Chapter Six!_

_Thank you so much for all your reviews, I love to hear what people think of my work :) Sorry if Sherlock is a bit OOC, but he had to surrender to his feelings at some point.._

_I do not own Sherlock. As much as I would like to._

_Love Misty x_

* * *

Chapter Six

Thankfully, Molly had not heard any of the previous exchange between Sherlock and his brother.

She was, however, slightly traumatized, having just been texted by a master criminal.

And it wasn't just any text.

_See you soon._

Molly wanted to leave. He was watching her somehow; she could feel his dark eyes cutting through her like knife blades.

_See you soon._

He was **here**. Was he here, or just using the security cameras? No, he was most definitely here, she could sense it. She could sense his gaze, meticulously watching her every move, chuckling at her now apparent fear.

_See you soon._

How soon did he mean? A day, a week, a month? Or.. tonight? Would he kill Molly? Use her? Use her to kill Sherlock? He wouldn't, she thought, though as she considered it, the possibility became more and more likely. The thought felt almost paralysing, but one cannot unthink something, and it began to claw away at her mind.

_See you soon. See you soon. See. You. Soon._

"Molly?"

She took in a sharp breath and looked up, wide-eyed. Oh thank goodness.

"Sherlock!" She smiled, a little too brightly.

"Are you all right? You looked scared," he said, the concern obvious in his voice. Sherlock was worried about her; he'd protect her if she needed protecting, Molly soothed herself.

"Yes. Fine. I.. I just t-thought I'd heard something." She giggled.

"Oh." Sherlock looked down at his hands. Molly looked at him for a moment, then reached for her phone and deleted all the texts that Jim Moriarty had ever sent her, partly out of secrecy so Sherlock wouldn't see if he ever X-rayed the damn thing, but mostly so she could just forget and let go, for a couple of hours at least.

"This restaurant is boring me. Would you care to go some place else?"

Molly had actually quite liked the restaurant, and was already planning to order what seemed like some sort of appetizing salad, but decided to go with him. They were being watched, after all, and Sherlock was clearly uncomfortable with any kind of romantic situation.

"Sure! Um.. where?"

"You were going to go to St James' Park but then left, didn't you?"

"Yes.. how did you know?"

He waved her off. "I thought I could make up for my earlier behaviour by taking you for a proper trip."

"But it's nighttime!"

"There's a nice fireworks display on at 9:30pm."

Molly looked at him and grinned, a real smile this time. "Sounds like a plan, Holmes." Her own confidence shocked her, but she suspected it would make him more comfortable if she seemed comfortable with him. She detected the smallest hint of surprise - pleasant surprise? - behind his eyes. "Your wish is my command, Hooper."

They left, and it was only after they had been walking for two minutes in the crisp nighttime air that Molly realised they were holding hands.

* * *

Something was different about Molly Hooper, and Sherlock still couldn't pin it down.

There was a new sort of sparkle - he really couldn't find any other word that would fit - that glinted in her eyes that he discovered were not just brown, but a particular shade of caramel. Her smile was no longer tentative and timid, but warmed her whole face, her features already shining in the soft orange glow of the streetlights. Her hair was down and bounced when she walked, her laugh was louder and.. how could he put this.. lighter. Like a weight had been lifted.

Sherlock had no idea how they'd begun holding hands. It had just happened. Maybe Molly had taken hold of his: they were supposed to be married, after all, and so had to act like a married couple, despite not being at all romantically involved. Wait, said his emotional side, if you and Molly are not romantically involved, then why does her hand feel so perfect in yours?

And it was true. Sherlock was loathe to admit it, but Molly's hand just seemed to fit in his like the missing piece in a jigsaw puzzle. It was quite amazing, really, but alarmingly powerful. If somebody had come to him with a case - with the most complicated, twisted case he'd ever had to solve - he would decline it to spend that evening with Molly Hooper.

They arrived at St James' just in time for the fireworks display and Sherlock took out the picnic blanket he'd brought along from the hotel. "Sherlock.. what? Where'd you get .. Oh!" Molly laughed, her new, improved, 'lighter' laugh. "You planned this beforehand, didn't you?"

For Molly, this was quite a good attempt at a deduction. Don't point it out, he told himself, or you'll seem patronising. "Guilty as charged," he joked, and sat down next to her as the rockets exploded into a thousand shimmering sparks overhead. Instinctively, he found himself shifting slightly closer to her on the blanket. Oh no. What if she didn't want him to? He had been stupid enough to not even consider that Molly may not like him in the way he was rapidly finding himself liking her.

Molly smiled shyly at him. "It's cold," he said quickly by means of explanation.

"Yes," she mused. "Coldest night this year, I think." Was that some sort of hint? Fireworks whistled above them as he inched slightly closer to her. And then, like the incident with the hand-holding, he found himself with her head resting on his shoulder and her fingers fiddling with the end of his scarf. Molly had a habit of biting her nails, he noticed.

She realised that she was leaning on him and jumped back, startled. "Sorry about that.. was it all right? I mean.. I mean -"

"No, Molly. It was perfectly fine, actually. You can, um, carry on if you want."

Molly settled back into her former position, and Sherlock found his arms around her and her mouth locked in a content smile.

"Sherlock.. um.. I think I maybe-"

And then his lips were on hers in their second kiss.


	7. Chapter 7

_Hiya! The ending of this chapter isn't a cliffhanger.. but very very fluffy :)_

_As always, reviews are much appreciated :)_

_Much to my disappointment, I still don't own Sherlock._

_Love Misty x_

* * *

Molly Hooper was kissing Sherlock Holmes.

Molly Hooper was _kissing _Sherlock Holmes!

They broke apart and she felt a blush stain her cheeks. How the hell did she end up kissing Sherlock Holmes? She'd held his hand, and then practically cuddled up to him, and then before she knew it they were kissing. Kissing. Please let this not be a dream, she thought. Please? She surreptitiously pinched herself. It hurt.

"Was that all right? Oh Molly, I'm so sorry, I got carried away." Sherlock looked remorseful.

"No! That was fine.. that was good.. I mean - I liked it - I mean - I like you! No, I mean, I love you." Molly felt her face flush again. Bonus points for being a stuttering idiot.

"You- You.. Oh." He smiled a little. "Does that make the kiss all right then?" He stroked back a lock of hair that had fallen into her face. The lightness of his touch made her almost shiver.

"Yes. Yes, I suppose it does." She cuddled up to him again. His coat smelt nice.

Molly had yet to properly process what had just happened. Everything she'd ever daydreamed about had just become a reality; in all those mornings in the mortuary where she'd gaze at him and imagine, she never expected them to become true, and look at her now!

Why was he interested in her anyway? She was not a serial killer, she was not a psychopath, she was _boring. _Dull, mousy Molly with her cat and her schoolgirl crush. But for once, she considered if she was more than that. No, Molly, don't be silly, she quickly dismissed afterwards.

"The fireworks are over," Sherlock said softly.

"Oh! I didn't notice." She had been occupied with her thoughts.

Sherlock chuckled. "I know."

They'd caught a taxi back to the hotel and, exhausted, collapsed into bed. Seeing Sherlock in his pyjamas, Molly discovered, was rather entertaining. They were checked green and blue ones. It was strange seeing him in anything but his tight shirts and jackets. Molly's pyjamas, however, were an entirely different matter; she had brought her pink and white fleece onesie that was embarrassingly covered with kittens. He fell asleep before she did - being in the honeymoon suite, they had to share a king-size bed, more comfortable than anything Molly had ever slept on - and she found herself watching him while he slept, like some kind of creepy stalker. Ah well, she thought, what harm could it do? And besides, he looked incredibly handsome whilst sleeping, especially with his raven curls ruffled up like they were.

After a while, she decided to stop watching him and go to sleep herself. She would need the rest.

It was the fairytale ball the next day.

* * *

Sherlock closed his eyes, but did not sleep.

He had learnt how to do a good impression of sleeping as a child; the chest had to have the correct rise and fall of the slower breaths humans take while asleep, and to be properly convincing you had to roll over or move slightly a few times - no-one sleeps completely still.

Molly was watching him, he was sure of it. Molly was in bed next to him wearing a kitten onesie. Molly and Sherlock had just declared feelings for each other. Molly was beautiful. Molly loved him and he loved her. Molly, Molly, Molly, his head was full of Molly...

The plan for the night of the ball was simple. She would meet Moran, or should he say Mark, by accident, and try and drag him somewhere they could be alone. Sherlock would follow them and stay hidden. When she achieved this, she'd talk about their relationship, how she wanted him back, blah blah blah - boring, ordinary people talk - and then once Moran was sufficiently distracted, Sherlock would shoot him with a tranquillizer dart. Molly would call 999, tell them that a man had been knocked out with some sort of drug, then wait for the ambulances (and more importantly, the police) to arrive, resuscitate him, realise who he was, and arrest him when he was back to full health. It would work perfectly. But seeds of worry were being rapidly planted in his mind.

What if Moran were to uncover Molly's true motive, and harm her? What if she became hurt because of his plan? Sherlock had formulated the plan specifically so Molly was in no real danger, there was no risk... was there?

It amazed him how one person could manage to blot out all of his neatly organised practical thoughts and just invade his mind palace like she owned the place. He did not recall falling asleep.

* * *

"Sherlock?" Molly whispered in the darkness. "You awake?"

"Yes," came the reply.

"Sorry if I woke you up."

"No, no, it's fine, I was awake."

Molly pulled herself from the comfort and warmth of the bed and pulled open the velvet curtains, blinking in the light. It was an overcast day, but the hotel gardens were decorated with white. It was snowing! Molly used to love snow as a child. No, Molly did love snow, present tense. "Sherlock!" she exclaimed. "Sherlock, it's _snowing!"_

He laughed quietly. "Molly, I hardly find this very interesting."

"But it's SNOWING!" She sighed as he laughed again. "Don't tell me you don't like snow!"

"I find snow pleasing, yes, but not very important in the grand scheme of things. Unless it impedes us going to the ball tonight, I really do not care."

"But we have the whole morning to ourselves!"

"What are you implying exactly?"

"Have you ever played in the snow before, Sherlock?"

"Don't answer a question with a question, Molly," he said light heartedly. She could tell he was enjoying this whole conversation.

"I was wondering if you would like to go play in the snow..." Molly immediately flushed and looked downwards.

"If you insist, then yes, I will go and play in the snow." He stood up and was met by a very enthusiastic hug.

"I love you, Sherlock Holmes," she murmured into his pyjamas.

"I love you too, Molly Hooper," he said back, and her heart felt like it was singing.


	8. Chapter 8

_Technically supposed to be doing homework right now... but really couldn't resist writing this chapter! _

_This is less fluffy than the last one, but has quite a lot of drama. Hope you all like it :) (By the way, the ballroom is made up - there isn't really one called the Eleganza in London. Although Eleganza does mean elegance in Italian, in case anyone was interested..)_

_As always, Sherlock belongs to Moffat, Gatiss, and Arthur Conan Doyle!_

_Love Misty x_

* * *

Chapter Eight

"All right, Sherlock, you win, I surrender," Molly giggled, collapsing in the snow after having taken a massive snowball to the head. "But admit it, that was fun."

"That was mildly amusing, I suppose." Playing in the snow was not the traumatic experience he had expected. When you got over the cold, it was actually quite an acceptable way to pass the time, and Molly had seemed to love it. He helped her up out of the snow.

"Race you back to our hotel room!" she said, brushing the snow out of her hair.

"What - Molly - oh, all right then," he sighed, defeated, and ran back to the hotel with her. Sherlock found her child-like enthusiasm somewhat adorable, and despite _having_ just had one of the most unproductive mornings of his life and his coat and scarf being soaked with the melted snow, he was enjoying himself.

"D'you want a hot chocolate?" Molly said.

"Why would I specifically want a hot chocolate?" he asked, bemused.

"That's what people do." Sherlock tensed up for a second at Molly's repetition of Moriarty's words that was clearly unbeknownst to her. "After playing in the snow," she continued. "They drink hot chocolate. I mean, I do that, and so do lots of people." She smiled awkwardly. He relaxed again, knowing that Molly had not detected his reaction.

"No thank you, Molly. Could I have a coffee though, please?"

"Black, two sugars?" she said.

"You know me too well." He remembered her making him coffee when he used to come to the mortuary, only those times, he had not said please. "Are you familiar enough with the plan for tonight?"

"Yes, course," said Molly. "Only what if he leaves before we arrive, or I can't find him?"

"That won't happen. He's staying until midnight. I'll knock him out at exactly 10:37pm." Sherlock had been about to explain how he knew, but since it was a rather long and boring explanation, he stopped himself.

"OK." She paused. "And you'll get out of sight after knocking him out? Where can I meet you later?"

"I'll probably just go back to the hotel. It's too risky staying at the ballroom, the police could see me."

"Sherlock?"

"Yes?"

"Are you.. are you ever going to properly come back? John and Mrs Hudson are heartbroken, and even Anderson misses you."

He snorted. "Anderson? Missing me? You have to be joking, Molly."

"It's more like he feels guilty for partially causing your death. He doesn't think you're a fraud. Neither does Lestrade. They're struggling without you, you know."

"I'll come back at some point."

Molly stopped pestering him. To be honest, Sherlock had not yet planned his big reveal. Was there even going to be one? Not for the time being, anyway.

He pushed these concerns to the back of his mind. After all, that night they had a ball to go to.

* * *

Molly stepped inside the ballroom and marvelled.

She had never been anywhere so grand. The ceiling was made of what she thought was gold leaf, its intricate patterns almost swirling above her. It was mesmerising.

At the far end of the ballroom was a huge projection screen reading 'Fairytale Wonderland at the Eleganza'. This was a sort of wonderland, she supposed, but at that moment her senses were being bombarded. Everything was so richly coloured, so intense.

Molly could hear the _swoosh _of satin as elaborately dressed ladies swept passed her, their high aristocratic laughs tinkling like bells. She looked down at her own simple white dress, feeling like a thistle next to roses. A faint smell of perfume started to waft towards her which made her feel light headed and dizzy. People twirled effortlessly around her. It struck Molly that her and Sherlock would obviously stand out, being the only couple not dancing.

"Ben," she said - having learnt to use the fake names without fail - "Everyone's looking at us because we're not dancing."

Sherlock sighed, visibly uncomfortable. "You're suggesting we dance." It was a statement, not a question.

"Well, we should. Unless you want people to recognise you."

"Fine." His tone lightened. "I must warn you, I am not highly skilled at dancing."

"It's OK, I'm not either!" she nearly squeaked, suddenly excited at the prospect of dancing - albeit badly - with Sherlock Holmes. They began waltzing rather awkwardly, Molly stepping on his toes several times, but after a while they got the hang of it and Molly found herself giddy from all the spinning. She was rather happy with herself when the song ended and she relaxed in his arms.

"That was not as terrible as I expected," Sherlock muttered. He looked up. "Molly," he said under his breath. "It's Moran. He's over by the drinks table."

She nodded and her face fell slightly. "Sherlock, if it doesn't work.. I mean if we fail.. I mean if something happens to you.. Or me.. Oh, never mind," she stuttered, and quickly kissed him on the lips, feeling rather proud that she had finally initiated a kiss. Then she dashed off, weaving through the crowd towards Moran bravely, unaware that Sherlock was watching and getting a growing sense that she was in real danger.

"Mark!" Molly exclaimed a little too happily. "We dated, didn't we?" This was going well, she thought. He seemed to recognise her and a slow smile was spreading across his tanned face.

"Molly, isn't it?"

"Yes. Did you.. did you and your friend from university.." She trailed off and glanced at her watch. Fifteen minutes before Sherlock arrived.

"We didn't get on too well, actually." He paused. "But don't you have a date?"

"N-no! I - I'm still single," she stuttered.

"I seem to remember seeing you with a certain Sherlock Holmes just now, though."

His words turned her blood to ice. _He knows Sherlock's alive! He - oh no - we've failed - what will he do now? _Her heart began pulsing faster. She seemed to be rooted to the spot with terror.

The smiling form of Jim Moriarty emerged from the darkness. "Hello, Molly. I have enjoyed watching you, and now we get to meet in person!"

"You're - here -?" she said, trembling.

"Yes. I've missed you, my little Molly! Come on, no need to be so scared!" Moriarty glanced at Moran. "So sorry about this, dear," he murmured, just before Moran pressed some sort of cloth against her face and she became unconscious, the music fading away and the beautiful ceiling being covered up by the blackest black she had ever seen.


	9. Chapter 9

_Hi! Here's Chapter 9 - hah I know it's only been a day but writing this is so much fun :)_

_Hope everyone enjoys!_

_Love Misty xx_

* * *

Chapter Nine

Where on earth was Molly?

Sherlock couldn't see her anywhere, although he swore she had been just by the drinks table a few minutes ago. Damn it, he thought, he was going to have to locate her in fifteen minutes or the whole plan would crumble.

He ran up the stairs onto the balcony above the whole ballroom where he'd get a better view in order to find her. His eyes scanned the entire space frantically, finding no sign of her. Either Molly had been very irritating and had taken Moran somewhere out of his line of vision, or..

"Sherlock. Holmes. Sherlock Holmes," a familiar voice gasped. Sherlock spun round to see Lestrade standing next to him, mouth open, stunned and disbelieving. He was wearing some kind of expensive suit - where had he found the money for that? - and judging by the creases in the jacket, he had brought his wife, who had just 'gone to the toilet' (gone to find out whether the PE teacher she was having an affair with had arrived). But never mind all that, Sherlock's plan to stay dead was already crumbling at his feet.

Lestrade closed his eyes and opened them again, then seemed surprised that Sherlock was still there. "But - but you died. You were dead. Molly did your post mortem -"

"Speaking of Molly, have you seen her anywhere?" Sherlock said calmly.

"What? No, but listen. Sherlock. You committed suicide. You can't - unless you faked it.. how on earth did you fake it?" Lestrade was showing evident signs that the full blow had not yet hit him. Hopefully he wouldn't pass out from shock.

"There's no time for that, Lestrade. My brother needs me to have Sebastian Moran in custody before the night is over."

"Sebastian Moran? Sherlock, Scotland Yard have been trying to get a lead on him for three months. Heck, we could have caught him by now if you'd returned from the dead a little sooner!" said Lestrade, exasperated. "Wait.. is Molly -"

"She's helping me and I can't find her. Now if you'll excuse me, Lestrade, I must check that she's all right." Sherlock walked briskly to the stairs, with an irritated Lestrade following him. "Whoa. Sherlock, you are_ not_ getting away that easily."

"What, are you going to arrest me again?"

"No." He hung his head in shame, remembering that Sherlock's downfall was partly his fault. "I didn't think you were a fraud. I never did." They continued down the stairs into the main ballroom.

"Don't worry, Lestrade, I was wondering when the police would be smart enough to begin suspecting me." Sherlock looked around. No Molly. His worries increased. Twelve minutes left and it was very probable that something bad had happened to her. Sherlock was so concerned that he did not notice the pleasant jazz music stop playing and the crowd exclaiming upper class 'Excuse me's or 'Could the music carry on again, thank you?'s. He was in no way prepared, however, for what had just appeared on the projection screen.

"Hello, Sherlock. Fancy us meeting again!" rang out Jim Moriarty's Irish drawl. He was alive! He was alive, and using some form of video chat - Skype, perhaps? In the background, Sherlock could just about see Molly, tied to a chair and visibly in pain. Moriarty had hacked into the system and replaced the cheery fairytale images with -

Fairytale images. Fairytales.

_Fairytales... _how, how on earth had Sherlock been so STUPID!

"Moriarty," Lestrade said quietly. "Did you know that he was alive as -"

"No, of course I didn't!" he said, frustrated, then turned to the projection screen. "Moriarty. You're alive. I should have known."

"Honestly, Sherlock! I thought you were far, far better than this!" Moriarty tutted in mock disapproval. "Sending your precious Molly to do all your dirty work for you, and _now _look what's happened!"

"Let Molly go," Sherlock pronounced through gritted teeth.

"Sorry, I can't yet. I would if I could, promise. How about you smile for the cameras, Sherlock? After all, you are now on every television in the whole of the United Kingdom!"

Sherlock cursed. He was doomed, it was over, and now practically the whole damn world knew that he was alive. Including John, Mrs Hudson... what would they be thinking?

"You gotta admit that's clever, Sherlock." Moriarty looked over his shoulder. "Moran, zoom in on Molly, would you?"

And there she was, so brave and so stoical, even with what looked like a British Army Browning L9A1 pressed firmly, threateningly, to her temple. He took in a sharp breath at the sudden rush of guilt that seemed to make his heart... hurt. Which was medically and biologically impossible, but he supposed it was a side effect of love. One wrong move, and Molly would die. He could not seem to imagine a world without her.

"Molly," he started, his breath shuddering. "Molly, I am so, so sorry. I'm going to get us out of this, I promise."

She shook her head simply, seeming strangely calm. "Thank you," she said quietly, "but like I said before, things could easily go wrong, and this time they did. And if one of us has to die tonight... I'd rather that person be me. You're going to save so many lives and solve so many cases. You're brilliant, Sherlock. You really are, and I... I don't matter."

"Never, ever say that again. You do matter. You do count and I am not going to let you die because of me. I love you, Molly." Lestrade was clearly puzzled by Sherlock's blatant show of affection, and Sherlock had no idea what John or Mrs Hudson's reaction would be.

"I love you too," Molly said, with the tiniest hint of a smile. The camera cut back to Moriarty abruptly and it felt like Molly had been snatched away from him, leaving only an aching nothingness behind.

"Oh, Sherlock, we all agree that was very touching. Very _believable_, too! Well done!" Moriarty paused, a flicker of something that looked like sadistic enjoyment in his eye. "But poor Molly! Doesn't she know what you really feel?"

What did he mean? How would Moriarty know anything about him and Molly? Wait.. oh no.

It hit him like a ton of bricks. "What was it you said again, Sherlock? Ah yes, I remember.." Moriarty continued. "Molly's nothing. She's only my colleague, an acquaintance." He smiled before delivering the final blow, like a cat taking pleasure in finally killing a mouse it had tortured. "I don't care about her at all."

The camera cut to Molly again, an expression of bewilderment on her face. "Sherlock. It's not true, is it?" She paused. "Is it?"

Sherlock sighed. He couldn't lie to Molly. He nodded.

"But Sherlock - I thought -" Tears sprung to her eyes and she let out a choked sob. "You were f-faking it? All this time? Sherlock..."

"No, Molly! You don't understand, it's not like that.. I was talking to my brother, I -" The camera swiftly turned to Moriarty again, cutting them off.

"So, Sherlock. You want your Molly back? Then find her, work out where we are, solve the case. The world is watching - show them you're not a fraud. Dance for me."

Sherlock scowled. "As you wish. But if you dare harm Molly.."

"I won't harm Molly! I wouldn't dream of it! All you need to do is solve the case by midnight, which means you have.." He looked at his watch. "Just over one hour! If you fail, then I'll have to hurt her, and the world will know you're not real." He laughed. "Good luck, Sherlock.. See you soon!

Sherlock wasn't thinking about Moriarty. Just behind the consulting criminal, Molly was still crying.

All the trust and care they'd built up had shattered into a thousand pieces. Yes, he could not understand the heart at all.. but he knew enough to work out that his - and Molly's - had just broken.


	10. Chapter 10

_Someone asked me to write John and Mrs Hudson's reaction to seeing Sherlock on live television, and I thought this was a great idea, so I did! By the way, Huntsworth Mews is a real road near Baker Street :)_

_As always, reviews appreciated, and I still don't own Sherlock._

_Love Misty x_

* * *

Chapter Ten

"John," Mary said, looking concerned and slightly amazed, "John, you need to see this."

It was two months since John and Mary had moved in to 143 Huntsworth Mews. Mary was the first girlfriend he'd properly moved in with - the first girlfriend he'd properly got to know, in fact - and she was... he didn't know how to describe her. She wouldn't judge him or think badly about him. She understood. And she was refreshingly _human. _John often wondered what Sherlock would have thought of her.

Mary held out her iPhone for him to see and he took in a sharp breath. Her Twitter feed was displayed.

#SherlockLives was the top trend. And that wasn't all - #SherlockNotDead, #BelieveInSherlock, #MoriartyWasReal, #MoriartyIsReal... Sherlock was everywhere.

"It can't be," John muttered. "It'll be a hoax. It has to be a hoax."

Mary nodded. "It's probably not true, but I thought it was best to tell you. Just in case."

"He's dead. I saw his body. And Moriarty.. Moriarty shot himself in the head." John sighed. "He can't possibly have survived. Neither of them can." If Sherlock was going to come back from the dead, thought John, he'd do it in some bloody clever way. Not through Twitter, of all things.

The phone rang, breaking their silence. "Hello?"

It was Mrs Hudson. "John? Is that you?"

"Mrs Hudson! I haven't spoken to you in ages!"

"John, you need to switch on the television. You won't believe this, it's Sherlock! He's alive, John! I saw it myself!"

The possibility was becoming increasingly feasible. "Mrs Hudson.. Are you sure?"

"Yes yes dear, of course!"

"OK then. Um, wait a second." John put the phone down and obediently switched on the TV while Mary hovered anxiously behind the sofa.

And it was him. His best friend. Sherlock Holmes, alive and well. John sat down and took it all in, not sure whether he should be overjoyed or angry.

"Oh my -" Mary gasped from behind him. "John, I don't know what to say."

"But - but how - this doesn't make any sense at all!" he exclaimed. "Mary, he was dead. I saw his body! He was officially pronounced dead! Pronounced dead by... Molly?!"

Molly's face appeared on the screen, a gun to her head. She was scared, but strangely serene in the circumstances. It all made sense to John: Molly had helped Sherlock fake his death! That was why she had asked to do Sherlock's autopsy...

He heard Sherlock's voice. "Molly, I am so, so sorry. I am going to get us out of this, I promise."

This did not sound like the Sherlock John had known at all. "Oh my god," John said. "Molly. Moriarty... You have no idea what I want to do to that little -"

"John. Calm. You ranting about Moriarty isn't going to help Molly, is it?" John shook his head.

"Sorry, Mary. I just.." He trailed off. Sherlock was speaking again.

"..You do count and I am not going to let you die because of me. I love you, Molly."

John's mouth fell open. This had to be a dream.. Sherlock Holmes was incapable of love..And with Molly Hooper? Molly Hooper?! The sweet pathologist from St Bart's whom Sherlock used to get spare body parts for his ridiculous experiments? He pinched himself firmly only to find that it hurt.

"They're at the Eleganza ballroom, aren't they?" said Mary.

"Yes. Yeah." He had no idea why or how Sherlock had faked his death, but two of his friends were in mortal danger.

"Sherlock needs help. Mary, I have to go and help him."

* * *

The rain was drumming on the roof like fingertips tapping away at the tiles, the wind lashing the room like a master whipping a tortured slave, the moon's light bathing Molly like a cool, calm mist.

Calm was the last thing she felt at this moment in time.

Molly tried for the fourth time that night to undo her bindings, frantically scrabbling at the knots that tied her to the chair, again with no success. It was futile, really - Jim Moriarty was watching her from across the room, and Moran was guarding the door. She could jump out of the window, if it wasn't so high up, and she couldn't exactly fake her death, having a much lower intelligence than -

Sherlock. He had been pretending all this time. He'd used her just like Jim had, but in an even crueller way: Jim had only gone on three dates with her, and there had been almost no physical contact except for one extremely awkward hug, but Sherlock.. She had believed that he loved her, they'd kissed, she had planned out a nice little scenario in her head, with them dating and going on holiday and solving cases together...

And, just like always, she had been stupid enough to be fooled by the great Sherlock Holmes.

Molly wasn't even sure whether he would bother to rescue her.

In which case, she should probably try rescuing herself, she thought. Again she pulled at the ropes around her wrists, but they held tight, leaving her with angry red burns. The pain made her wince.

"Aww, Molly. You're trying to escape again. How sweet," Jim mocked her.

"Yes," she said, chin up, sounding much more confident than she felt. "Seeing as Sherlock most likely isn't coming to get me out, I figured I should try myself."

He laughed at this. "Brave of you. I do hope Sherlock arrives before midnight, Molls. I really would rather not waste bullets on a pretty thing like you."

"He's not coming," she insisted, although a tiny part of her was still praying Sherlock would take pity on her and get her out.

"Yes, I suppose not. After all, I really doubt he has feelings for you." Moriarty chuckled. "Sherlock must have found you mildly amusing, swooning over him, trusting him so completely. To be honest, Molly dear, I think he may have found you slightly... pathetic."

Molly hung her head in defeat. Jim was right. His words were cruel, but true, and it was almost a relief to hear them spoken aloud, even by the most dangerous man in the world who was planning to have her killed sometime in the next hour.

Suddenly, the rain stopped.

Someone was coming to save her.


	11. Chapter 11

_Hi everyone! Here's Chapter Eleven, hope everyone likes it :)_

_My Xmas holidays just started, so I'll be updating a little faster, and am feeling really encouraged by all the positive feedback - you're amazing readers and reviewers and I love you so so much._

_I still don't own Sherlock or Molly or anyone. _

_Love Misty x_

* * *

Chapter Eleven

Sherlock was pacing like a caged tiger down the corridor. He'd never been so distracted before. It felt awful - he would think and think and know he was on to something, then the image of Molly would pop into his head, crying, the gun pointing menacingly at her, and he wouldn't be able to shake her from his thoughts. Sherlock was a mess, and he only had - he glanced at his watch - thirty seven minutes and twenty two seconds until it was all too late.

A hand rested on his shoulder. "Sherlock," a voice said from behind him. "Sherlock, you're alive, and I really want to punch you right now, but I don't think we have any time to lose."

"John," he said quietly. "I'm sorry. I'll explain afterwards, there was a good reason, I swear. Congratulations on your new girlfriend, by the way. You have somehow managed to stay with her for more than two weeks."

John laughed, then turned more sombre as he remembered why he was there. "Have you found any sort of clue as to where Molly might be?"

"John, I can't do it. My mind palace doesn't seem to work any more and Molly - what if I can't save her? She could die, John, and it would all be my fault."

Sherlock noted John's look of slight bemusement at his words, but chose to ignore it.

"OK, Sherlock, Molly can't be too far away, and we have time. We just have to think about this."

"But that's the point, John! I can't think! My mind's too crowded, I just don't -"

"Calm down. If you were that cowardly git Moriarty, where would you be hiding?"

Sherlock paused. "He would do something clever. Something he knew I would get... That's it!"

"What's it?"

"Moriarty_ wants_ us to find him, don't you see? Killing Molly would be unsatisfactory; no, he doesn't want to kill Molly, that would be too boring for him! He wants a showdown. He wants the day on the roof, only better."

"Yes... So what does that tell us?"

"Oh! Fairytales, John!" Sherlock sighed as his friend began to look puzzled. "Fairytales!"

"Ohh, like before. Right."

"Text Mary and tell her to find a floor plan of the Eleganza. We need all the help we can get."

"Sherlock, I hardly think Mary will -"

"Just do it, John. Please?"

"Fine," John sighed reluctantly, and pulled out his phone. "Sherlock?"

"What?"

"You... You really love her, don't you." It was a statement, not a question. He looked incredulous.

"Yes. I think we've already established that, John. Now come on. Fairytales.. Think of fairytales."

"Mary's just texted me a picture of the floor plan." Sherlock peered over John's shoulder and it all fell into place. It was obvious, it had been obvious all along!

"The tower! She's in the tower! He's doing some sick version of Rapunzel."

John smiled at him. "See! I told you that you could do it."

"Yes, but not without you," said Sherlock as they made their way to the tower. It almost felt like the adventures they'd had before his faked suicide - but this was the only crime that he hadn't rejoiced at its occurrence.

* * *

Molly's heart lifted as Sherlock and John burst through the door. She shot a look at Moriarty that said, "Hah! They came after all!"

"John, keep the gun on Moriarty," Sherlock commanded, then rushed over to her and started to undo the rope tying her down. He kissed her forehead lightly and she took in a sharp breath, her whole body tingling. He'd come! Did that mean that he really did love her? Perhaps Jim had made the whole thing up! Why on earth had she believed the consulting criminal in the first place?

"Not so fast, Sherlock," Moriarty drawled from behind them. "I decided to take a leaf from your book and get my own pet! Perhaps he shoots better than your Watson over here. He'd be more than happy to shoot dear Molly if I told him to."

Sherlock sighed and pulled away from her. "Molly has nothing to do with this. It's me you want your revenge on."

"Yes, but she's rather helpful to have around, just to get you to do what I want."

"You promised not to hurt her!"

"Ooops! I lied." Moriarty smirked. "You know what, Sherlock Holmes? You know what?"

"No. Do inform me."

"You're boring. Hah! You're boring! Now that you have emotions, you're practically ordinary. You're one of them, one of the angels, flitting around cheerily, relishing the simplicity of their existence."

Molly realised her bindings were looser now that Sherlock had attempted to untie them. Maybe if she did it surreptitiously while they were arguing, they wouldn't notice...

"I'm afraid you have emotions too, but choose to disregard them. I've just become a little more well acquainted with mine."

"Well acquainted? Sherlock, you are besotted with a dull, mousey pathologist of average intelligence. You're willing to risk your own life to save her. How sweet. How _predictable. _I've become tired of you. Sorry!"

Two knots fell loose at her feet. Only two more to go.

"Has it crossed your mind yet that _I _have also become tired of _you_?"

The consulting criminal had not been expecting that. "Yes. It has actually, and now I can't exactly leave you alive to tell the world all about me, can I?"

It all became clear to Molly. Jim was planning to have Sherlock killed and then leave, off to find someone else to be his new plaything. Well, that wasn't going to happen; not while she was still around. Her fingers battled with the final knot.

"No. You can't leave loose edges. Only problem is, John has a gun pointing straight at your head, and is also more than happy to shoot you or your Moran."

"Thing is, Sherlock, the trick with this life is not to become too attached, which I have already mastered. And you have not. Ciao, Sherlock Holmes. I can tell you, it's been fun." The knot collapsed just as Jim nodded to Moran, giving him the signal. The signal to shoot.

Suddenly Molly knew what she had to do.

She got up and stood in front of the consulting detective.

The bullet tore through her side with a pain that was almost liberating.


	12. Chapter 12

_Hahaha I feel like Moffat after the last chapter! Hope I didn't make anyone too sad :(_

_All your reviews have been awesome, so thank you so so much._

_Sadly, I don't own Sherlock. _

_Love Misty x_

* * *

Chapter Twelve

There she was.

Lying on the hospital bed, like a tiny animal trapped in a net of drips and tubes, looking so small and so fragile that Sherlock's heart seemed to twist. He hadn't been able to see her since the accident - the press had swarmed him like wasps, and Molly had been in and out of so many operations, no visitors had been allowed.

"I am so sorry for your loss, Mr Holmes," the nurse who'd accompanied him whispered, her face crestfallen.

"My loss? What do you mean...? She's still alive!"

The nurse lowered her voice even further. "We're taking her off life support this evening if she doesn't come out of the coma."

"You can't," he said simply.

"We've kept her alive for as long as we can, Mr Holmes. It's standard hospital protocol, I'm afraid."

Sherlock looked down in defeat. It was lucky that she survived the bullet wound at all, and now, his beautiful Molly was going to die. Because of him and his stupid plan. The feeling was like nothing he'd ever experienced at all; he was completely powerless. There was nothing he could do to save her.

"What if she wakes up before this evening?"

"Then of course we help her recover. Though we've never seen anybody come out of this type of coma before. It would be a miracle."

"How long can I see her?"

"You have five minutes. We would give you longer, but she's going to be prepared to be taken off support after your visit. And Mr Holmes - we're not sure if she can hear at all, but just in case she can, don't mention what's going to happen this evening if you're going to speak to her."

He mentally exploded at this. "She has a right to know!"

"It would distress her. We want her passing to be as peaceful as possible, I assure you."

Sherlock swept past the annoying nurse and took the chair next to her. The memories of that night came back in a flood.

_"There's been no sign of either Moran or Moriarty," John says bitterly. "I don't know how they've managed to escape. It's impossible. Lestrade and I were on their tail, I swear."_

_Sherlock isn't listening to his friend. He crouches on the floor next to the broken body of his pathologist, his Molly Hooper. "Has the ambulance arrived yet?" he says, his voice rough and hoarse._

_"They'll arrive in under five minutes. Molly should be fine." Sherlock can tell his friend is lying. Molly's breathing is shallow, uneven and ragged; her face pale and drained; her heart beating like a frightened rabbit's. _

_She is the opposite of fine._

Sherlock reached for her hand. It was still warm, and still fitted perfectly in his like the night they saw the fireworks at St James'. That night seemed a lifetime ago now. Looking at her, he could see no trace of the Molly he had fallen in love with that night. His Molly had colour in her cheeks. His Molly's smile could light up the whole of London. His Molly had exuded this raw happiness to be alive.

_The ambulances roar in, wailing like banshees, and soon Molly is swarmed by nurses wielding medical thermometers and pulse takers. She is so small, amongst the people ordering each other around and shouting, desperately trying to save her life._

_Sherlock spots some of Molly's blood on the floor and the full weight of what has happened cripples him. He sinks to his knees and watches as the ambulance crew carry her onto the stretcher and push her into the vehicle, away from him. He becomes nervous. What if something were to happen to her while he was not there? What if they give her the wrong medicine or administer CPR incorrectly if her heart were to stop? An immense wave of protectiveness for Molly rushes over him. He has never felt emotion this deep or this strong before._

Live, Molly, Sherlock thought, live for me. Please.

* * *

Molly knew two things.

One, she was going to die.

That nurse was an idiot. Molly had working ears. She could hear the muffled conversations across the ward; she could practically sense the grief in the room and she wasn't even dead yet. Being comatose wasn't as terrible as she had expected. Once she had gotten over the amount of tubes connecting her and her life support that had at first been incredibly uncomfortable, it felt like lying in bed, awake. She could still hear, touch and smell, but not move or speak. There was nothing she could do that told the nurses "Yes, I'm still alive."

Two, Sherlock was here.

Having working ears, his baritone was unmistakable. He sounded troubled at her imminent death and if Molly could move or speak, she would have comforted him. She felt an intense urge to open her eyes and see him, to stand up and hug him, to say that it'll be all right.

Sherlock had started an argument with the nurse about Molly's now greatly shortened lifespan. Molly, on the other hand, wasn't troubled by the fact she was going to die. She had done it for Sherlock, and because of her he would live. Besides, she had actually taken Moriarty's advice and decided not to become too attached to life in her final days, which she found rather ironic seeing as it was his gunman who'd put her in this position in the first place.

A hand she immediately recognised as Sherlock's took hold of hers. His hand was warm, and fitted perfectly in hers just like before. "Molly," he said, on the verge of tears, "I am so, so sorry for what I've done. This... this was all my fault. I love you and I always will."

"One minute, Mr Holmes," called the nurse from the other end of the ward.

He was going to leave! No, he couldn't leave! She had to do something. Anything. Come on, Molly, she thought.

She found her eyelids fluttering open to see him, and her hand squeezing his tightly.

"I love you too," she said quietly, managing a tiny smile.


	13. Chapter 13

_Here it is - the final instalment of A Temporary Wedding! so sorry it took ages to update, I was busy with Christmas things :) good news is, drumroll please..._

_I'm doing a sequel! I won't reveal too much yet, but it's going to be called A Temporary Alliance and will involve Sherlock and Molly of course, more Moriarty and the one and only Irene Adler! _

_Hope you like this chapter - it's practically pure fluff.._

_I love everyone who has reviewed, followed, favorited and read this story. You're all amazing. _

_I still don't own Sherlock. Sigh._

_Love Misty x_

* * *

Chapter Thirteen

Molly wished she had brought an umbrella. It had been a beautiful day when she'd gone for the check up, and now it was practically raining cats and dogs. Her hair stuck to her face in a most unpleasant way and she was sure her mascara and eyeliner had run. Damn it, she thought, I probably look like some ugly sewer rat.

She walked briskly through St. James' Park, her eyes darting around looking for him. If he wasn't there, she was going to get seriously irritated - he said he'd be there at one o clock sharp, and more importantly, Molly would have gotten all wet for nothing. She glanced at her watch. 12:59. It was still too early.

Molly finally spotted him at exactly one o clock. Trust him to be so punctual. "Holmes!" she cried, her bad mood completely erased, and ran towards him. "Hooper!" Sherlock said happily, and pulled her into a hug. "Pretty sure you're not supposed to be running in your condition," he whispered, smiling,

"Pretty sure my doctor gave me the all clear today! I can do just about anything, besides mountain climbing and - what was it - oh yeah, heavy weightlifting," she said, breathless.

Sherlock frowned. "You're getting wet," he exclaimed, and pulled his coat over both of them, shielding her from the rain.

"Now your coat's getting wet."

"I think you're slightly more important than my coat."

"Really?" She cocked her head to the side.

He smirked, and stroked a lock of her hair out of her face. "Only just."

"Love you."

Sherlock stopped, and reached for something inside of his coat.

* * *

How did ordinary people propose, anyway? Sherlock didn't want to get down on one knee, it was raining so his trousers would get muddy and wet. He scolded himself immediately after thinking this - the state of his clothes was not going to impact in any way on this whole proposal business. Anyway, it wasn't strictly speaking a proposal, seeing as they were still legally married as Benedict Cumberbatch and Louise Brealey, so it didn't really have to be traditional. He figured he would just get the (new and improved - he'd found the first one garish and big, completely unlike Molly) ring out of his coat pocket, propose, and be done with it.

Why did he want to go through with this in the first place? Of course he loved Molly, but couldn't they just be a couple without being married? The truth of the matter was Sherlock was very nervous. He could not, and he repeated NOT, mess this up, otherwise his relationship with her would go down the pan and they'd be back where they started. The shy girl in the morgue and the unsociable, arrogant detective. Arrogant? Yes, arrogant. At least, he was then. He had been married to his work, sort of married to his own intellect really, which, upon looking back, now seemed ridiculous.

And soon - if all went according to plan - Sherlock Holmes was going to be full time, properly married to Molly Hooper. The thought made his brain sort of tingle and buzz, which he knew could never happen physically because brains cannot move by themselves.

Get on with it, he thought, or it'll take all damn day. He reached for the inside pocket of his coat and pulled out the tiny box with the ring inside. Sherlock was rather proud of his chosen ring; it was silver (he knew gold was more valuable, but silver seemed to suit her, being more delicate and understated, and Molly did not strike him as the kind of woman who cared very much about the price of things) and held a diamond, but a very delicate one, like a teardrop. He looked into her warm eyes for a final burst of courage, then began. "Molly Hooper," he said, all fear now gone, "will you do me the pleasure of remaining my wife?"

At this Molly gasped and made an adorable kind of squeak, then threw her arms around him. "Yes," she squealed, "I would love to more than anything!"

"Oh and one last thing - John's not going to be moving into 221B with me, and I was wondering if you would care to join me instead?"

"Of course! Sherlock, if we're going to be married, we should probably live together," Molly giggled.

"Brilliant! Can you move in next Sunday? And would you care for some tea there now? Mrs Hudson wants to meet you."

She laughed, obviously finding his eagerness amusing. "That would be lovely." They walked back to 221B, holding hands all the way.

* * *

Later after Molly had left, Sherlock received a text.

_The divorce papers are all ready. Meet me outside your flat with Molly at 12pm tomorrow. -MH_

There was something particularly satisfying about replying.

_Actually Mycroft, we won't be requiring any divorce papers. -SH_

_I knew it. I knew it! -MH_


End file.
